


I Really Thought Patrick Monahan Was Gay But Wikipedia Tells Me Otherwise

by nuclearwinter



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ....in space, Hand Jobs, IN SPACE!, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Sburb, Sex in Space, dave/somebody else implied, poly!dave implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 01:32:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9469511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuclearwinter/pseuds/nuclearwinter
Summary: On a trip exploring the new cosmos with Dave, Dirk thinks about how lucky he is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Combined entries for Day 1 of [Stridercest Week](http://stridercest--week.tumblr.com/) (fave ship), and [Stridercest Week NSFW](http://stridercest--week-nsfw.tumblr.com/) (masturbation). In case you feel like giving me shit about the bad space science:
> 
>  

This is not the flat blankness of paradox space; it’s a velvet void that glitters with points and streaks of light, stretching under your toes and above your head on a scale that makes you dizzy when you stop to notice it. It seems as though the laws of physics that should be doing all sorts of gnarly things to your earthly flesh are being bypassed by whatever provision allows you to flip gravity the bird and tell senescence _I'll call you_.

Even so, you’re glad you’re not alone. Dave is still wheezing for breath, coming down from the hysterical laughing fit you sent him into with your Bowie impression just now. He bumps into your side and you catch him, warmth thrilling through you everywhere you touch.

“ _And I’m floating in a most peculiar way_ ,” you wobble on, “ _and the stars look very different today—_ ”

“Oh my fuckin’ god dude,” he says, smacking you until you stop. “Hang on, I got one.”

Your heart beats faster.

“ _Tell me!_ ” he yells into the stars. “ _Did you sail across the sun!_ ”

You’ve never heard Dave sing. Rap, yes, but not sing. You’ve never heard your Bro sing either, not in any of the hours of video you’d been able to scrounge together. His voice is a little rough, but tuneful. You join in, because of course you know this one too. You get up to ‘deep-fried chicken’ before you both start laughing too much to keep going.

He looks so fucking happy.

Sometimes it punches you in the stomach, just how lucky you are to have this with him. How lucky you are that he could forgive you. How lucky you are that he loves you. How lucky you are that he shares his love with so many people, that he keeps it all ticking. How lucky you are that he’ll follow you at the drop of your antisocial yet rad-as-hell hat into the cold-as-hell depths of space just to make sure you’re not alone.

It really is fucking cold. You let yourself burrow in a little closer. Another lucky thing to add to the list: casual affection is barely even hard anymore. Every time he reacts with his dorky brand of open and sincere pleasure your self-esteem levels up, and by now it’s strong enough to cram your self-consciousness out of the way so you can enjoy your bro snuggles in relative peace.

You say relative because now he’s mumbling Elton John into your hair, _I’m not the man they think I am at home, oh, no no no_ , and you are probably hitting critical levels of homo here.

You turn in his arms. “Miss your wife?”

He snorts. “We have snapchat.”

Then he kisses you, slowly and gently, giving you all the time in the world to move away. He has this way of making it feel like the first time every time. Clearly you need to do it lots more.

He pulls back an inch, and you cut in before he can speak. “Don’t you dare say that gay on the moon meme while I’m making out with you in space,” you say, nearly into his lips, and he starts laughing, rolls his face into your neck. “God, you weren’t kidding about being _high as a kite_.”

The diamond rivers of nameless galaxies wink around you, and he keeps snorting warmly into your neck, and you think that really, none of those things you were mulling over before are luck. They’re things you’ve both worked for, things you’ve both chosen. But there are two things you truly are lucky for: that you even exist, that of all the possible futures, this is the one you get to live.

You hold Dave tight.

(Until he decides to start singing _WELCOME TO THE SPACE JAM_ in your ear.)

~

As you drift just into the orbit of a massive ringed planet, Dave does something to the flow of time and dips his hand into the glittery plane of ice dust like something straight out of WALL-E.

“I wonder what the nerds are going to name this one,” says Dave fondly. “They have pretty big shoes to fill after Uranus.”

His shades are reflecting the spinning shining drifts of ice, and you decide that if you’re going to descend into John Green quote gifset levels of cheese you may as well push him down into the glitter and kiss him senseless.

“Is this your actual plan?” Dave gasps when you bury your cold nose in his neck, and gasps again when you lick him in apology. “To go around the new galaxy like a first homeowner who’s gotta have wild monkey sex on every mortgaged square foot to forget he signed his ass to the big banks? To boldly bone where no man has boned before? P-plant your flag in–ahh–”

The noise he makes when you squeeze his butt is one of your favourites. “Maybe I just want to make love to you on every surface in the universe,” you say, mostly ironically.

“…You want us to freeze our asses off,” he says, after a pause. You feel smug anyway, because his heart is pounding against you, and his god tier pyjamas do not do much to protect his modesty when he gets aroused. You take off your shades, and reach for his. He lets you.

“Imagine me making a joke about warming you up, babe. It’s hilarious. We pound it. With the formalities out of the way, I present the following actual suggestion: no need to expose your delicate nethers to the frigid mysteries of the cosmos. I could put my hand in your pants.”

“So making love has downgraded to risky wristies.”

You think you’ve hit your fake-ironic cheese cap for the night, so you store your quip about how it’s always making love when it’s with him, draw him close, and hope he can feel it in your kiss.

When you slide your hand down the back of his pants, he whines into your mouth, squirming. His skin is so hot it nearly hurts, and you restrategise before he can break away to complain. You tug your hand out and rub the base of his spine over his clothes instead. He arches into you like you knew he would and gets a better hold on your shirt, which leaves your other hand freer to rub his dick through his pants. This has him squirming in an entirely different way.

It’s kind of awkward and sweaty being wrapped so tightly together, but every little noise you draw out of him makes you ache. You feel out the heavy length of his cock, thrilling at the way his breath hitches as you make it stiffen more in your hand. You kind of want to see it—just the feel of it is turning you on so bad—but a line of space ponies could come cantering past and you still wouldn’t be able to stop kissing him now. The more you stroke him the deeper he kisses you, and you’re pathetically and predictably overwhelmed by his attention.

But then he groans and leans back, and you start—suddenly, it’s his bony fingers you’re feeling through the fuzzy warm fabric instead. You think for a split second that maybe you should be insulted, but you can’t hang onto it, because, well. You feel your whole body flush at the sight of him, face pink and mouth wet, ice clinging to his hair as he pleasures himself in front of you. Losing himself in front of you—it’s so breathtakingly private.

You hook your knees under his a little tighter so he can spread his thighs a little more. This seems to bring him out of whatever horny daze he’d been in, and his eyes flick up to you a little self consciously as he takes his hand back out to lick it.

“That’s so hot,” you tell him. You don’t know whether you mean the peek of his tongue or the tent in his pants.

 _Really?_ his eyebrows say, but his knees knock into yours as his thighs twitch further apart. You watch his hand slide back under his waistband, watch him tease himself, get into a real rhythm. Every time his eyes catch yours he flushes harder. He’s caught between the preening showboater who spams everyone with selfies and glows under attention, and the intensely private guy who’s just as happy to slink into the background, who still wears shades every day, for whom becoming vulnerable is a battle in and of itself.

Yeah, he’s fighting. You tug his lip from his teeth with your thumb. “You’re right there,” you say, and he makes a choked little sound. He’s about to make himself come for you, and you’re so turned on you can barely hold still. You cradle his face, rub his nape. “Right there. Come on, you can do it.” And because despite your best efforts you’re still a little evil, you say, “You’ll be able to tell everyone, hey, I jizzed in Uranus.”

He laughs and moans and comes, still laughing, crumpling into you. Then he twists his hips and spins you over into the cloud of ice, which goes billowing in all directions. “Goddamn you,” he says, grinning and loose and bright. There’s no real up or down in space, but he looks like the centre of everything to you. That’s the worst thought you’ve had so far. There’s probably not enough of whatever magic is substituting for oxygen in your brain right now. You’re so fucking horny you might die.

You don’t die. You eat his come and suck his fingers til you blow in your pyjamas, which in the afterglow makes you kind of wish you did die. But Dave doesn’t say anything. He just holds you close and strokes your hair, eyes on the rivers of stars, and you let him, eyes on the secret little smile on his face.


End file.
